


silent night

by leigh57



Category: 24
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is more fic from the Christmas 2011 stocking. The complete list of prompts is <a href="http://leigh57.livejournal.com/139488.html">here on LJ</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	silent night

**Author's Note:**

> This is more fic from the Christmas 2011 stocking. The complete list of prompts is [here on LJ](http://leigh57.livejournal.com/139488.html).

The table was moving.

Karen stared, entranced, watching the swirling curves of wood grain move like tiny snakes, foggy and blurred at the edges.

"Ms. Hayes?"

She blinked in response to the voice behind her; the shapes on the table went still. "Kristen. I’m sorry. Did you need something?"

"President Taylor wants to know if you have any changes to the briefing packet before she sends it to State."

Karen stood up, grateful she'd chosen the low-heeled navy pumps that morning. After a catnap last night and maybe three hours of sleep the night before, she'd reached that stage of exhaustion where things like walking in a straight line and achieving subject/verb agreement required constant focus. "I'd like to read through it once more, but please tell the president I'll have an answer for her within fifteen minutes."

"I'll let her know." The intern pushed through the shiny glass double doors of the conference room and vanished around the corner.

Karen gathered her things off the table, enjoying the first fifteen seconds of silence she'd experienced since her arrival at 5 a.m. Arms full, she shoved the door open with her elbow, muttering, "Excuse me" in the general direction of the dark pinstriped suit entering the room.

"Hey, gorgeous."

Her head snapped up. She recognized the voice (smooth warm rumble that made her smile even when he was doing something as banal as ordering Indian food over the phone), but her thoughts refused to provide logical connections.

"Bill. What are you doing here?" She stepped into the hallway.

"I had a meeting with Tim Woods. I told you about it last week."

 _Crap_.

The entire conversation washed back into her accessible memory, complete with the part where Bill had observed (quiet, loosening his tie as he spoke) that they hadn't sat down for dinner together in three weeks.

Which would be . . . four.

Now.

(One night last week, she’d come home at 2 a.m. or something to find Bill asleep on the couch, remote by his hand, the TV still flickering in the dark room. When she’d walked softly into the kitchen to get herself a glass of water, she’d found a note taped to the fridge, precisely at eye level. _I left you a plate of chicken-broccoli alfredo in the fridge. Wake me up before you go to bed._ )

"Right. You did." She thought about that thing her high school choir director used to tell her, that you should never lock your knees when standing still, because you might pass out. "I have to get back to the president about a briefing. Can you wait twenty minutes?"

"No."

She wondered if exhaustion was causing auditory hallucinations. "No?"

He shook his head. "I’m going home. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

She didn't have a clue, couldn't look at her watch with the stack of papers clutched to her chest. "Noon?" she guessed. “One?”

"It's 5:30."

"Shit." The enunciated T echoed behind her eyes, and she couldn’t make herself meet his unwavering blue stare. "I'm sorry. As soon as I-"

“I’ll tell you my plan,” he interrupted. The fact that he’d cut her off (since they’d started dating, she could count the number of times he’d done this on one hand and have a couple fingers in change) shifted the uncomfortable rumbling in her stomach to pure nausea.

She resisted the tired, irrational urge to fight back and remained quiet.

“I’m gonna drive home listening to NPR,” he continued. “I’ll change into that terrific sweater you bought me last month -- the grey one -- and take Sebastian for a walk. Then I’ll wash my hands and, using this insane new curry recipe Janis forwarded me last week, I will make the best rice and curry you’ve ever tasted.” As he spoke, his expression slowly shifted from irritation to something like reluctant amusement. “When the curry’s finished and I have the table all set -- complete with a bouquet of flowers I’ll buy somewhere on the way home -- if you’re not there, I’m inviting Cindy.”

“Cindy? Dana’s clerk?” The 3-D image rose in Karen’s mind. 5’10.” Long, unnaturally smooth dark hair, emerald green (really, like the gem) eyes. Probably a double D.

“Exactly.” Unable to suppress the grin that flirted at the edges of his mouth, Bill glanced around before leaning in, his lips so close to her ear that her hair lifted as he spoke. “So I hope you’ll be home by eight.” He reached for her arm, quick stroke of his thumb up the inside of her wrist that nonetheless created an instant flutter in her spine. He murmured something under his breath as he turned to leave.

He had disappeared down the hallway before she realized what he’d said.

 _I miss you._

*******

Ten minutes later, Karen stuffed a fat manila folder (papers jammed unevenly inside -- usually she made them all line up before she packed them away) into her briefcase and pushed her reluctant, aching feet into her shoes.

She walked out of her office and handed a neatly stapled packet to her assistant, who was sipping coffee from a giant green Starbucks mug, squinting at her computer. “Meg, please take this to the president immediately. Then go _home_. You’ve been here since six.”

“Tim wanted to work in that meeting about the Pakistan delegation. He said to ask if you could make 6:30.”

“No, I can’t.”

“But-”

“That trip’s not until February. Schedule something with Tim early next week.” Karen shrugged into the sleeve of her navy trench coat. “I’m going _home_.”

On the way, she’ll turn on Pandora and listen to the instrumental Christmas station she’s been refining during commutes for the past two weeks. She’ll stop to pick up a bottle of 2005 Penner-Ash Pinot Noir (expensive, but she knows it’s his favorite even though he’ll never say so).

She’ll walk into a house that smells like curry powder and that delicious ‘Home for the Holidays’ Yankee candle.

For tonight, she’ll shove work out of her mind.

And she’ll concentrate on what’s important -- Bill’s smile, the smell of aftershave on his neck when she kisses him, the tang of good wine, the way he links his little finger with hers while they’re eating.

A warm, curved X of connection.


End file.
